NOVEMBER IN SROADLAND. 123 



the bakin' for dinner tu-morrer, or my name ain't what it are.' Says she, < Doan't 

 yow tell (count) yer chickens afore yer hatch 'em.' Tha's whare I bate yer, I says, 

 'cos they're geese an' not chickens at all ! 



'Howsomdever, I goes arter 'em, and by dint of crawlin' along aholl (dry ditch) 

 among nettles an' brambles, wadin', through sluss (mire), and what not, cum up 

 within aisy gun-shot. l Now, Peggy,' says I, ' du yer duty ! ' and I claps her to my 

 shoulder an' pulls the trigger. Only a click she made I hadn't put a patch (cap) 

 on. And if yow b'lieve me, I fumbled in ivery pocket an' cuddn't find one. The 

 geese hams up theer heads a-wonderin', but seein' nought to be skeered on went 

 on feedin'. I cud ha' hulled (thrown) Peggy in the holl. Howsomever, thinks I, 

 I ha' got a match; here goes. So puttin' rny hand jest under the trigger-guard tu 

 steady her, I poured a charge of powder over the nipple so as not tu miss goin' ofi 

 if possible. Click ! went the match, up jumped the flock, or tried tu. As they 

 bunched up, Peggy blazed intu 'em, settlin' how many I didn't know, for the powder 

 as wor on the gun an' spilled in my hand, bust up intu my silly old face, burnin' 

 off ivery hair as wor on it an' fairly blindin' me. But I got my bards four on 'em, 

 as sun as I cum anyway round at all. Ane ain't I a lovely critter jest now ? My 

 old woman wor finely skeered. I hope I shall get over the * mute ' (moult) by 

 springtime.' 



As we row across the Broad, a dense fog, which we have been anticipating, 

 settles over everywhere, so that to steer homewards without mishap we skirt the 

 reed-bed, making a detour much longer than necessary, but, as in walking in a fog, 

 so one may row and row and find oneself an hour hence at the very place started 

 from. Now and again a gull looms up in the thickness, appearing much larger 

 than he really is ; like a grebe or two that we make closer acquaintance with than 

 usual, he shuns our society as soon as he recognises us. As the fog seems likely 

 to last some time, we quit the Broad and walk homewards with our discursive friend, 

 who has much to tell us. This afternoon he is expected at Farmer Hobbs's with 

 his ferrets ; rats have become more plentiful than welcome. One curious incident 

 happens near the landing-stage. A moorhen paddling round in search of food has 

 attracted the hungry eyes of a big pike. A splash and a whirl ! and the fish's ugly 

 head appears above water, but a moment too late, for the bird has taken to wing 

 in the very nick of time. 



On our way towards the village we pass a trio of farm-hands watering their 

 horses at the horsepond. They have been at the plough. We cannot help noticing 



